Saturday, March 17, 2007

Semi-public shower facility. Divided: Men, Women. Reasonably clean floor, but I still wear flip-flops. Women is often out of hot water. I stride into Men, knock-knock, “Girl!” not even bothering to check. I know three of the four guys there, anyway: a man I love in a fatherly way (if you’re the father of Electra), Lover, and Boyish Dimples, a strapping round-headed Dutchman with whom I’ve been flirting for some time. The man I don’t know is on the way out. The fatherly man is wrapping up, powdering his crevices, donning a bright flowered shirt, khakis, his own flip-flops, kissing me “Goodnight, honey,” as he heads out the door, I’m already stripping down.

Lately I’ve been eyeing Boyish Dimples. We flirted on and off, mostly as a function of showering at about the same time. He joked that I should join him sometime. When he performs (yes, yet another musician, although I don’t think drummers really count) I watch him. When I dance, he watches me.

We weren’t speaking for a day or two – I made a remark in a group that he took as more cutting than teasing. I suck at playing the girl game. Women shouldn’t be smartly mean, whatever. I made up, because I wanted him. Sent a card via a friend, “I know people usually send flowers to make up, but anything sold here would be fraught with symbolism. Have this instead as an apology,” tied to a fat soft pretzel crusted with salt. I figured if he didn’t know “fraught” the context would probably explain it. Making up without bowing down. He smiles when he gets it, signals to me across the room that things are ok, he’s finally over it.

The shower. Lover – stall number three, carefully pretending we’re no more than public friends. Boyish Dimples, stall number two. Me, stall number one. Me, stall number two.

“You promised you’d wash my back.”

Boyish Dimples is slightly astonished that I’ve made good, also that I do actually expect my back washed. His hands are huge, fingers spreading wide enough to cover my entire shoulder blade as he rubs the soap up and down, shying near the top of the cleft of my ass, then rubbing down both sides, my flesh soft in his hands. I press my ass into his cock, slide him between, then turn around.

“Now the front.” I’m speaking softly, but I know Lover knows I’m here, is stretching out his own hot water to stay as long as he can. Boyish Dimples rubs across the top of my chest, my skin tanned there, down my sides, across my stomach, until I take his hands and place them on my breasts. He pauses there, feeling the weight in his hands, then soaps my breasts, rubbing the nipples between his fingers and thumb. I reach up and kiss him, gently drawing his tongue into my mouth and sucking the tip. He’s unshaven yet, the bristles against my cheek feel like man to me.

“Your turn.” I take the soap from his hands, kiss him again, pressing the length of my body against him, breasts against chest, hips against hips, stomachs touching with the slick of soap between us. I do his back first, rubbing hard on the muscles, sliding the length of his spine, rounding over his ass, noting the clench that tells me not to pry too far. I turn him, do his arms, his armpits soft with hair (clean, freshly showered armpits are an unsung joy for me) rub over his pectoral muscles, just under eye level. He’s a big man. Used to play football. Or maybe rugby – I can’t remember, but one of those sports where guys run at each other and make piles. I take my hands down over his stomach, now softer but still decent, under the slope, take my hand beneath his testicles, soap the spot behind them, rub them carefully, then firmly take the base of his cock. He’s been hard for a while.

His eyes roll back a little and he closes them as my hand slides up and down his cock, ring my thumb and first finger around the head, slide back and forth letting the ridge pop through my fingers. He reaches for my pussy, slides a finger inside me. I enjoy it, the way he beckons inside me, but that’s not what I’m here for. I rinse his cock and sink to my knees, take him into my mouth. Lover is out of his shower, toweling off, Boyish Dimples hears a footstep and says “Ummm…?” and gestures with his head.

I smile and give the “I don’t care” headshake, difficult with my mouth full of cock. I’ve been teasing Lover about this for days, wondering if I could actually make it happen, hoping to be able to get Boyish Dimples alone, and the fact that Lover happened to be here at the same time is an unlooked-for bonus. The sound of the water has changed now that I’m kneeling, I hope Lover notices. I suck BD, his cock is medium long, medium thick, respectable but not too big to slide into my throat. I take my tongue around the head, slide my mouth down, arch the point of my tongue against the underside and slide back up. Lather, rinse, repeat. Recently Guitarist has taught me something he likes, a twisting motion with hand and mouth combined, coming all the way up and back down, each time the sensation of reentry. BD taps the back of my head, I’m confused enough to take him out of my mouth and he comes all over my face. I lick off what I can reach, suck the head to get the rest, he reaches down and wipes my face – always a sign of class. I come up and kiss him, he asks if there’s anything he can do for me.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” He persists, which I appreciate. But I don’t come from fingering, and really, it’s more powerful not to this time. I like having given the gift, not wanting in return. Besides, I’ll get mine later.

As we dry off, alone in the room, he tells me he doesn’t usually come standing up. I’ve heard this from a number of surprised men. Turns out the head-tapping was the Universal Sign for “I’m going to come.” Guess I missed that day. I tease him, asking if he’s sure he forgives me. His gratitude is exactly what I need.

We leave the showers, walk away, hug goodbye. I go to Lover, call into his room, he comes to the door and takes me in without a word. Lover kisses me, his mouth deeply in mine, his tongue searching for the other.

“I missed most of him in my mouth.”

Lover does not care, BD can still be tasted, his come distinctive in the hollows of my mouth. Lover takes me, mish, looking into my eyes while I tell what happened, telling me he could hear the sound of BD in my mouth, it was wrenching to walk away, he’s been rock-hard imagining the rest. He comes inside me, sex with condoms can never be as good as this, the sudden extra hardening, the warmth, the wet that will drip out of me for the next hour.

The next year, I see Boyish Dimples again. I’m making time with someone else, he has a new girlfriend, and we do no more than smile, chat, see each other at the fringes of groups. Our schedules are tighter this time, and the hot water’s been fixed on the women’s side. He does catch me, one day, as dusk is falling.

I say, “It’s a shame they fixed the hot water.”

He says, “That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. I hope you’re not offended by this, but whenever I need that extra something to get me over the edge, that’s what I think of.”

I love it when I experience something in real life, and then write about it -- and when I read it back it could be true or fiction... and no one but me knows that not only was it true, but it was just as hot (if not hotter) than actually written.